Jam Flirt
by findingBIRDS
Summary: Got that bitch jam. Bitches love jam.


"I'm fairly sure that 'e's up to something."

John settles with shoving his hands in his pockets against the cold, and looks at the red-nosed woman narrowly over once more. Hell, of course he was up to something. Last week it was experimenting on some sort of explosive opium, and two weeks before jumping into the Chinese New Year's parade to tackle one of the men clad in xuanduan formal wear. Sure, one thing lead to another and eventually his strange and sudden interests in things, or adventurous tendencies otherwise, were explained, but recently it was getting close to dangerous. Such as the mentioned explosive opium.

Especially since the western New Year's Day, when they were in their cozy place at 221B Baker Street waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. It went down more or less like this:

John, of course, had been in his own self appointed chair (or more like the chair he was appointed to), and held a book in his hand for his fair share of leasurely reading. He had been trying his best to pointedly ignore the man across from him, but after near half an hour of being awkwardly stared at, he dog-eared the page he was on and snapped it shut.

"What do you want?" were the annoyed words that fled his mouth. They earned him little to no reaction from Sherlock, who didn't seem abashed by how his calculating eyes hadn't ripped themself of John for what seemed like the whole day. Instead, the lanky man, who was leaning forward on the couch, opened his mouth as if to say something.

Then he shut it right back up again. John continued to look at him expectantly, and began making a beat with his fingers on the paper book's cover.

"It seems as if Waffles is shedding again," he said, and pointed at the blonde's jumper. Surely enough, a clump of orange fur sat stubbornly against the dark blue of the material, so he wiped it off, gave Sherlock one last look, and went back to his book. Holmes continued to stare. Hence, once again, after John chanced five minutes of reading without looking up, he shut his book once again and decided to not even say anything but look expectantly back.

Sherlock shifted in his chair, but his voice was as it usually was, a sound that held both magic and misery to his ears. "How is it going with Sasha?" And then his eyes finally averted somewhere else, to John's hair, as if it told him all there was to know about Sasha.

After a quick run of his hands over his hair, John looked to the side, back, and managed to spill out an indifferent voice: "She - her work - it wasn't working out." Since when did Sherlock care about the women he dated?

"You never seem to pick the right people," he said, and suddenly he clasped his hands and put them to his lips, as if he had just gone into deep thought and calculations.

"Well, I'm sorry," was what John said, now more than frustrated.

"It's as simple as choosing the right person."

"I'm sorry that it's not as easy as that, Sherlock. Now can we please stop discussing my love life? You can't just walk outside and_ 'choose the right person'_, it's not that simple."

This seemed to brighten Sherlock up considerably. John was about to query why, since he didn't think he said anything quite pleasant at all, only quite the contrary, but the answer soon came to him: "It's settled then."

"W-what is settled?"

"Stay here, and you've chosen a person that's close enough."

This took a moment for the small man to process. "Look, Sherlock, I'm not-"

"I know, of course, of course. Bisexual, though."

If anything was redder than the carpet at that moment, it would have been John's face. "I thought you said that we wouldn't discuss that." Not saying that he was ashamed of it, but the story that he told Sherlock that revealed it was one that he didn't want to go into, but served as the only example for one of his 'human morality' lessons to the consulting detective, who could use as many of those as he could.

"It's settled then."

John tossed his book on the table and crossed his arms, looking exasperated. Why bother trying to read a book when Sherlock was around, anyway?

Of course, at the time, he thought that it was just one of the man's tests, experiments, what have you, but after the weeks passed and he was taken to out of the way restaurants out of the blue, John realized that his roommate could be considered as something more as just that. And he wasn't sure about how to feel about that at all.

However, there was the fact that John got used to it. Sure, feeling Sherlock's hand on the small of his back as they sat near each other, the longer linger of his pale blue eyes, so on, took time getting accustomed to, but perhaps as the detective planned, John was starting to change his behavior as well. Instead of only thinking of Sherlock as a stubborn child, he began to help him clean up his messes in the kitchen, or allow an accidental touch of their elbows or hands linger on instead of moving. And of course, there were the subtle and sleepy pre-caffeine smiles in the mornings and a cozy huddle at the coffee table afterwards. But the thing that made John certain that Sherlock was putting an effort into this new ordeal happened that very day before bedtime on New Years. There was hesitation that night on John's part, unsure if words or something as silly as a kiss on the cheek would suffice for a goodnight's farewell, but Sherlock gave him a brief hug before much contemplating was executed. Sure, it was a bit fast, but... pleasant.

It was all becoming rather pleasant.

So it's just a little disheartening when he hears from a homeless woman that Sherlock is 'up to something'. Hell, of course he's 'up to something'; when is he not? But the news of being with a woman he has never seen from her description, and the fact that they've apparently been 'horsing about' the city streets makes him suspicious. Just maybe a spark of jealousy touches his heart and makes it beat faster, which he knows is ridiculous. Because John knows that though there is never a time when Sherlock is not up to something, said something will certainly not be embracing some woman and whispering in her ear gently from behind, or pinching her hind-side mischievously, as this informant was saying. However, on top of everything else, it isn't something he wants to hear on the day before his birthday.

"Are you sure it was him?" John says, still uncertain.

The woman nods. He expects as much, for who else in the entirety of Britain looks like Sherlock Holmes?

The two part ways unceremoniously, the homeless woman resuming her place on the park bench, and John back to 221B Baker Street, for once wishing that the homeless system of information that Sherlock had created for himself never existed.

Ms. Hudson is not at home, a fact that makes itself apparent when Whiskers immediately tries to bolt out of the door as soon as John opens it, and as he makes his way up to the second floor and into his apartment, he realizes that Sherlock isn't in the residence either. Which is fine, Watson actually prefers it this way in the first time for a few weeks. All the while, from the park back to 221B, he can't rid his mind from the mysterious woman and the fact that he already wants to assume sniper positions on every intersection in London just to take an aim at her pretty blonde head.

John enters the kitchen but pauses before opening the refrigerator door, wondering if he really wants to check for food in its shadowy bowels, before raiding the cabinets for a snack, anything. And by the time Sherlock gets back home, John is still eating away at his third box of Matchmakers and looking bleary-eyed at the telly. However, he makes an attempt to clear his throat and face the other way from his partner when the tall man walks into the room.

"Hello," John starts, and chances a glance over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was looking at him curiously. However, if he could tell anything from the state the blonde was in, which was probably everything, he didn't say it, and only moved into the kitchen to begin making a fresh batch of coffee.

"Don't eat all of them," is all he says, his voice drifting mellowly into the sitting room. "You'll get fat.

This causes Watson to stop munching mid-chew and turn his head to Sherlock. "Of course I won't get fat," he grumbles, mouth still full, before swallowing and shoving more into his mouth. "Ridiculous."

Sherlock only looks at him for what seemed like a very long moment, as if to say "do you really believe that?" before moving on and heading into his room. "Do not disturb me," he requests, talking as he walked without bothering to look back. "Watch the coffee, will you?"

John lets out an unhappy mumble, which would be translated to a yes, sure, whatever you'd like master, because obviously I'm your servant, as his grumpy mind has worked up into becoming so agitated from the past hour or two of disdainful and bitter thoughts. And after the consulting detective's voice begins to pour out in murmurs from the other side of the door however, John does drop the Matchmakers on the end table and looks moodily at the window. Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned dating with a simple girl that wasn't so frustrating half of the time? John had thought that with Sherlock, a man of almost unnerving forwardness, wouldn't beat around the bush but just _say_ things. But, obviously not.

Two can play at this game.

The next morning, with Sherlock out, he takes some time to relax and watch television before finally rolling off the sofa to look at the intersection addresses that he had the homeless woman jot down without anything more than a few glances at the birthday cards on the table. All of intersections he often frequented on his way around town, as they were commonly crossed by many and usually jam-packed with pedestrians, which makes him wonder just what Sherlock is up to. Frolicking about London with some blonde American beauty, eating at the outdoor cafes, shopping, and hanging around like a pair of lovesick teenagers. More likely than naught it is a case that Holmes has decided not to tell him about, but nonetheless John feels like he should do something. Sherlock should know better than doing things like this behind his back while they are together, even if it what is going on is for the sake of resolving some crime or another.

The Oxford Circus? _That's as good a place to start as any._

Of course, there is the part of what he exactly intends to do if he does catch Sherlock and the woman. And in all honesty, he has no idea. Confront them, act rightfully upset since he is in fact upset, and go back to the apartment. Or Molly's. After all, she always seems to have plenty of ice cream. Of course, Sherlock probably won't take it seriously, but oh bloody well. However, when John finally does get to the intersection and give the bustling area a thorough run-through, and then moves on to the other two addresses, he only ends up waiting for a cabbie to pass so that he can catch it because there was no Sherlock or bubbly blonde bouncing about. So, instead he settles for an impatient expression and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Fine day, ey?" A voice says near him. John looks over to see a well-dressed man standing next to him, perhaps a few years younger but more sullen looking. And in fact, his voice and appearance are very contradictory to what he'd said in the first placed, since one would imagine that he was in fact having a less than fine day. So, noting the sarcasm and figuring that their mutual unhappiness was noticed by the other, John mutters and replied with a, "fine as can be."

Then the stranger shakes his head, drops a cigarette on the floor and stamps it out on the pavement, and says, "It's ridiculous, really. She can be with whoever she wants." He then sticks his chin up, lets in a breath, and tugs at his collar. "Still gets me though. I actually came here looking for her, to tell her how I feel. Couldn't find her though, so I guess I won't tell her." A pause and a sigh. "Girl on your mind too?"

John clears his throat and nodded, figuring that it was close enough. "Yes." And, after another look at the man, he adds, "You should tell her the next time you see her."

"Hrm. Well... I don't see how it could hurt." Before any foreseeable awkward silence can ensue, a cab drives by, and the stranger beckons it before the doctor can react and offers him a smile. "Thank you. Take care now." And then he takes the cab, shuts the door, and is off.

Is it entirely possible that he is being absurd? Because suddenly, standing in the middle of the Oxford Circus that was now being drizzled on by silver clouds up above, it hits John that he sort of is. It wouldn't hurt to simply go up and ask Sherlock himself. Because, sure, it seems like Holmes isn't practicing much trust, but John could at least do the courtesy of introducing it to their relationship. So, by the time that he catches a cab, he goes back to Baker Street and is met in the apartment by an almost surprised looking detective signing something off at the door.

"I thought you were working?"

John pushes past him and shrugs his coat to sling over his arm as Sherlock turns and the postman retreats back to the street. "I took the day off." Then, leaning back on the wall and shoving his hands in his pockets, he asks in a testing manner, "And what did you do today?"

The immediate response is a quick look-over at his general attire, the coat in his arm, and then John's face. The next was one of disappointment. "Who told you?"

"That doesn't matter right now."

"Ah, of course," Sherlock murmurs, this time keeping his eyes on the shoes, before he offers a small smile. "Happy birthday."

"You remembered." Watson sounds utterly dissatisfied. _That won't do it, thank you._

The tall, curly-haired man widens the door and gestures John to stand next to him near the vehicle, which he reluctantly does. "It baffles me that people still use that tactic of jealousy to earn another's affection."

John crosses his arms, and they assume position facing the back of a small white lorry. All there is to do is wait for Sherlock to finish.

"However, it turned out to be of some use to me. A woman was looking to make her boss jealous, and because he is most often out of his office and out in the city, she offered that in return for making a show of ourselves together, she'd give me something that I've been in the market to buy." That slightly arrogant, prideful tone that often taints Sherlock's tone creeps back into his voice as he speaks, all the while making John wonder what exactly is in the truck that the detective had been "in the market" for.

"John," Sherlock says, and knocked on the back of the lorry, a signal that causes it to start veering open. "Happy birthday." And what meets John's eyes are crates upon crates of Robertson's jam.

His jaw almost drops open. "It's jam." And then he looks at Sherlock, who is looking expectantly at him, and cracks up. "This is the most ridiculous, ridiculous thing ever," he says between laughs, and hugs Holmes in a cozy, warm hug that stops the March cold from ticking his red nose further. Sherlock, though of course not usually accepting of spontaneous hugs, accepts this one affectionately. When John pulls away, he opened the nearest crate, snagged a jar and popped it open. "What in the world are we going to do with all of this jam?" His voice sounds almost scolding, but he brings his lips to the jar and slurps some of its contents.

Sherlock reaches out a finger and wipes some of the red substance from his cheek and licks it from his finger. "Strawberry. I still don't understand how you like this stuff." With that, he grabs another container and pops it open for himself, which draws more chuckles for John. Believe it or not, when his boyfriend decides to be funny, he absolutely is. He hopes that the jam wasn't a serious gift though, but rather a joke, which seems to be increasingly unlikely when two men hop out of the lorry to start bringing the crates in. However, John doesn't give it any thought when Sherlock slips an arm around him and they walk in a snuggled procession into 221B.

With what seems like a lifetime supply of jam, along with another (almost) blissful night with Sherlock, John thinks to himself that this may just be his best birthday yet.

* * *

**Author's comments;** Just another fluff-filled Sherlock fic. Reviews are massively loved, as are ones that contain input and criticism in the prose above! Thank you, and enjoy!


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